Math has never been my strong suit. As I excelled in my humanities classes it took me significantly longer to comprehend the complicated formulas and equations. However, until my senior year, I managed to get by. Even in the first day of pre-calculus I was lost. The variables and differential quotentients bled together and my mind began to swim. I was in far over my head. Each day as I walked to class my heart began to race. The thought of sitting in a room occupied by kids who felt the lesson was elementary and a teacher who had no pity for my struggle was an otherworldly experience for me. I had grown so accustomed to feeling confident in myself and my intelligence. It was excruciating to be the student receiving the lowest test scores. Many days I left the class in tears. Shame and hopeless started to eat at me. One day the teacher pulled me aside and asked how I was doing so poorly in the class. I replied that I simply could not comprehend what we were doing. I listened in class and took notes, and I spent my nights pouring over my textbook to try and understand, but it just wasn’t getting through to me. And instead of offering his help or support he scoffed, utterly unsympathetic to my plight. After my third consecutive D, my mother suggested we invest in a tutor. Safe to say this was one of my best investments throughout my high school career. Through careful instruction and empathy to my situation my tutor helped me to slow down and understand the curriculum that had previously been so out of reach. I began to regain my confidence and my self esteem began to creepy slowly back up. And finally, I got an A. Something that seemed so wildly unattainable such a short time before. Without the help of a tutor, I would have continued to flounder. All it took was a kind heart to take the time to assit me for my talents to flourish.
